


from apocalypse to zenith

by tepesh (TheRoseGalaxies)



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Development, Character Study, Dissociation, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Panic Attacks, Serenes Massacre, Worldbuilding, alphabet fic, an ungodly amount of Phoenicis geographical and cultural worldbuilding, it's pretty heavy at the beginning but I promise things get better, this fic's alternate title is "Reyson's ABCs of Tellius" but that's not angsty enough
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-01-04 16:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18347567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRoseGalaxies/pseuds/tepesh
Summary: Twenty-four years of Reyson's life, from the end to the beginning.or: Reyson learns the language of Tellius.





	1. apocalypse

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an amateur linguist with a lot of feelings about Reyson - thus, this fic. we know Reyson comes to Phoenicis unable to speak the Tellius language just like Leanne, but he shows no sign of it being his second language by PoR. so I'm bridging the gap. and writing depressing things.
> 
> (I took a break from writing bird smut to write this and now I'm just sad)

* * *

 

apocalypse

/əˈpɒkəlɪps/

_noun_

  1. the complete final destruction of the world



 

* * *

 

It's a few days after, when he's sitting on a jagged grey rock staring out at rolling waves, that he hears the crunch of leaves that heralds an approaching Hawk. They take care to make noise, to warn him of their presence, as if they would startle him if they didn't. They are fools for thinking so - he is a Heron, a creature of the mind, and he feels their apprehension, their discomfort, long before they deign to announce themselves. He hates the measured sounds they make, hates the Hawks and their roughness and their misplaced kindness and everything they are because they are not his, not his family, not the white wings of his sisters and -

 

"The King asked me to give you this," the Hawk says. A pouch rests in his hands and Reyson can smell sweetened nuts without opening it.

 

He nods but says nothing. The flat syllables of the modern tongue do not rest well in his mouth, but to speak Serenes is to linger in a world, in a state of mind, that no longer exists.

 

"I always walk loudly," the Hawk says to fill the silence. "It is hard to know what others can hear. I do not want to surprise them." 

 

Idly, Reyson wonders how he knew. Hawks do not possess the abilities of Herons; they cannot see what he is thinking or feeling. (There will never be another with whom he can communicate without speaking.) The Ears of the King, Reyson remembers, is what they call this Hawk.

 

"What," Reyson clears his throat (he still feels he will choke on smoke, thinks he will never breathe again without tasting the ashes of his people), "what is your name?"

 

"Ulki." Ulki has not moved his hands, so Reyson takes the pouch.

 

(He does not offer thanks.)

 

“The sea is very beautiful,” Ulki begins. His voice is deep and rough; Reyson has the impression he does not speak often. “I enjoy the sight and sound of the waves.”

 

“I don’t have much of an opinion on the sea,” Reyson says in the ancient language, unthinkingly - perhaps he is losing his mind more than he thought.

 

Ulki regards him for several long moments. The Hawk tribe, Reyson is learning, does not consider it rude to stare, and he has been the subject of the Hawk King’s piercing gaze one too many times to ignore. He has figured out this: if they stare at him, they do not think he will break. Reyson finds that comforting.

 

“I heard them.” Ulki is looking to the sea again. “From Phoenicis. I am sorry we weren’t fast enough.”

 

Reyson closes his eyes. Ulki gives no unwanted sympathy, only the truth, and Reyson does not need to see his heart to know he is nothing but honest.

 

“In the modern tongue, there is a word for destruction. It is often applied to the theoretical end of the world should the dark god awaken, but I think that cannot be its only use.”

 

He waits a few moments for Ulki to continue. In the interim, the only sound is that of far-off crashes as waves strike against the craggy rocks of Phoenicis. They possess an odd sort of melody that Reyson, oddly, does not hate. He twists the tie on the satchel to ground himself, to ensure this world is real, to prove to himself he is alive regardless of whether to be real and alive is right.

 

Finally, he voices the question, realizing Ulki will not continue without prompting. “What word?”

 

“Apocalypse.”

 

Reyson silently repeats the word, forming his tongue around the harsh consonants in the middle, switching the stress until he thinks it would pass for a Hawk’s natural enunciation.

 

“It becomes dangerous after sunset,” Ulki informs him after a while, standing slowly and unfurling his wings. “Please return to the castle before dark.”

 

“Yes,” Reyson says. “I will.” He unties the pouch and holds a roasted hazelnut between his fingers. It is sweet and tastes of the maple of Phoenicis’s midlands, a rich, heady flavor so unlike the unsweetened snacks of Serenes.

 

He finds he does not mind the taste.

 

The deep waves are the only witness to Reyson’s resolve atop this Phoenician cliff. He will learn, he decides. He will learn the language of this world of hatred and chaos. In five years, ten, or twenty, he will stare down the beorc and give them the true meaning of _apocalypse_ , and they will understand. It is not the end of Tellius at the hands of a dark god – it is destruction, complete and utter, and Reyson will bring it to the beorc as vengeance.

 

He is in a world, now, where Herons do not sing, and he knows that is the true meaning of the word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing from Reyson's perspective is HARD. or, as my friend said, "when you wanna write about struggling but You do the struggling"


	2. bitter(sweet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Tibarn finally shows up and I make shit up about ancient languages and Phoenician geography. the berry part is true, though; Tibarn tells Ike in PoR about their famous berry juices and desserts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I took so long to get this chapter out. I wanted to put it out yesterday, but then Ranulf got into Heroes and I had too much energy.
> 
> p.s. I write this fic while exclusively listening to [Rafiel’s Aria (Extended)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z3Kj2B_hd0c) on repeat. for hours. it’s good, you should try it some time.

 

* * *

 

bitter

/ˈbi-tər/

_adjective_

1\. having a sharp, acrid taste or smell; not sweet

2\. feeling or showing anger, hurt, or resentment

     2.a. full of intense animosity and acrimony

     2.b. marked by cynicism and rancor

3\. painful or distressing to accept or contemplate

     3.a. caused by or expressive of severe pain, grief, or regret

4\. (of wind or weather) intensely cold

 

* * *

 

 

The fruits of Serenes are tart: kiwi, custard apples, durians, and the –

 

Were. The fruits of Serenes _were_. Reyson slams the book shut, wincing with the sound and the shockwave of pressure it sends through his hand, and sets it on the table more gently than he would have liked. It’s an herbology guide meant for the amateur scholars and gardeners of Phoenicis, but if he has to read aloud one more sentence involving Phoenician berries he is going to scream.

 

Across the table, Tibarn sighs and rakes a hand through his dark hair. “Your pronunciation’s getting much better. But even if it wasn’t, I doubt the book would care,” he says, leaning forward. Tibarn has a ridiculous way of sitting in chairs; he always has one leg bent or on the table and his wings outstretched, sprawling himself across the furniture as if it simply cannot hold his size.

 

Reyson scowls. “I don’t care,” he snaps. “Either. Too. Which is – I don’t care.” He pushes the volume in Tibarn’s direction. When it doesn’t reach the Hawk, stalling instead in the midway between them, Reyson is further upset. He can’t even push a _book_.

 

He’s lying, of course – he does care, too much, about how he is received, about his abilities, about his voice, about what he wants to do to the beorc, about the stupid Hawk King and his stupid Hawks and their berries, but if he acknowledges that he cares then he thinks he will come undone. He will burn then and there, on an island nearly a thousand leagues from Serenes, and there will be nothing left to deal the hand of fate unto Begnion. To that end, he will not care.

 

“Either.” Tibarn attempts to meet Reyson’s eyes, but Reyson has suddenly found a fascinating knot in the wood of the table. It looks like a blueberry. “Reyson,” Tibarn tries. Reyson traces the knot with his finger. “Reyson, we don’t have to do this now, or here, or at all.” There are thin layers of frustration in the not-air between them (why, why does the modern tongue not have a word for this, it is the essential plane of communication and yet they rarely know it exists) that signals there’s more Tibarn wants to say, but he refrains.

 

Reyson breathes deeply, tasting the crisp Phoenician air. A few months ago, the thin air cut his lungs and he could barely fly without overexerting himself, but he has grown used to it. It has a taste he enjoys, in some twisted way – the only flavor Serenes could be said to have was ash.

 

“We do not have to do this now,” he answers, repeating Tibarn’s words, although the silence has lasted much longer than any Heron would have found comfortable. Tibarn, for all his brash behavior, doesn’t seem to mind waiting when it comes to him.

 

(Reyson wishes Tibarn was not so _good_. If there was nothing good in Phoenicis he could be done with caring altogether, but the Goddess is cruel and her latest cruelty is to put Tibarn in his path.)

 

“But I _want_ to do this now,” Reyson finishes, reaching for the book again. Tibarn swipes it from the table with one massive hand, tossing it lightly into his lap before leaning it against the table leg on the floor.

 

“I’ve got a better idea. Books are dusty and boring if you already know what’s in ‘em, and I’ve always found practical experience goes a long way in helping us learn just about anything.”

 

Reyson blinks, his hands still on the table. “I’m not learning, I’m practicing,” he insists.

 

Tibarn huffs a laugh. “Yeah, you’re practicing, but it’s still learning. I dunno, ‘learning’ is a bit broader in the modern language, or something,” he adds in response to Reyson’s frown. “Besides, you want to practice now, and I want to eat something now, ‘cause you’ve got me thinking about food.

 

“Think of it like practical experience,” Tibarn continues. “I mean, when are you gonna talk about Phoenician berries reading from a book? Never. But you might talk about them when you’re flying around the berry peaks. We’ll do a little ‘repeat after me’ while we fly, sound good?”

 

There’s little to which he can object. The Arqa peaks are hardly a destination he would attempt on his own given their size and the vertical distance it takes to reach the top, but he wants, so strongly, to experience the entirety of Phoenicis, that Reyson is standing even before he offers Tibarn verbal agreement.

 

Tibarn asks him questions about Phoenician herbology as they fly, soliciting opinions that Reyson tries not to take too long in formulating perfectly. If he had been asked a year ago if the Hawk King would make a decent tutor, Reyson likely would have laughed and politely disagreed. In the beginnings of their lessons together, Tibarn was hesitant to correct anything Reyson said (afraid he would break him, Reyson felt, afraid that either his words or the implication that Reyson was flawed would snap him like a twig and destroy him). But Tibarn is as gentle as he is ruthless, in teaching as in the hunt – he learned quickly, and now he recasts as fast as he dives and offers respite like this jaunt into the skies before Reyson knows he needs it.

 

It takes them twice as long as the textbook claimed to reach the lowest peak. No wingless creature could ever scale the Arqa mountains, for although their tips are dusted with green bushes, the body is steep, jagged, and known to change topography as the cycle of seasons nudges huge slabs of rock to detach from the walls and crash below.

 

“That’s a raspberry,” Reyson says when Tibarn holds up a small red fruit.

 

“Flatter,” Tibarn corrects. “Try not to put equal weight on each syllable, you make it tonal when you do that.”

 

Reyson tries not to scowl. When he repeats the phrase satisfactorily, Tibarn tosses the raspberry to him. Momentarily shocked by the movement, Reyson panics and ducks sideways to avoid it, nearly losing his balance as he jerks his wing out of its path.

 

“Shit – sorry,” Tibarn winces, folding his wings closer to his sides.

 

Reyson tries to smooth his own angled feathers as he calms his breathing. “It’s not your fault,” he says after a few moments. “Please – please try another one. I want to catch it.”

 

Tibarn tilts his head, regarding him with that look he has when Reyson says something, does something that forces Tibarn to reevaluate Reyson all over again. Slowly, he bends down and wraps tanned, scarred fingers around a spot of crimson. “Alright. Catch.”

 

There’s barely two feet of air between their hands when he catches it, but Reyson succeeds, and the burst of flavor is doubly rewarding for that. He steps closer to the bushes and coaxes a few more berries off their stems. The air is woven through with expectation; Reyson feels the unblinking eyes of the Hawk King on the inexperienced movement of his hands before Tibarn turns to collect a few fruits of his own.

 

They stand there, on the lowest of the Arqa, as Tibarn tells him about his favorite desserts made from these berries. Between bites, he suggests collecting more to give the kitchens – he brought a lined pouch, if Reyson wants to try a cobbler, but he insists on gathering them all himself. Reyson settles for his raspberries, one at a time, marveling at the number of seeds contained in an inch of fruit.

 

“This one is different,” Reyson says, frowning. “It’s…” he trails off, searching for the word, but he can’t find it even in his repository of the ancient language.

 

“Tart?” Tibarn suggests. “Sometimes they’re like that. Adds a bit of variety, a touch of surprise.”

 

Reyson shakes his head. Tartness he knows from pineapples and citron, and there is a bit of that, but it’s something else, too – a tilt of flavor that the fruits of Serenes never had.

 

“There’s only so many ways you can describe fruit…. Bitter, maybe?”

 

Reyson seizes it. “Yes! But some sweetness, too. Bitter-sweet.”

 

Tibarn’s grins is lopsided and proud. “Hey, that’s a real word. Bittersweet.” He pops another couple of raspberries in his mouth and gives Reyson a raised eyebrow. “Do you like it? The bittersweet one.”

 

“I think I prefer the sweeter ones,” Reyson admits.

 

Tibarn’s brow creases as he stares at him, surprised. Reyson supposes his reaction is natural; after all, who ever heard of a Heron who liked sweets?

 

Then again, Reyson is defying everything expected of his tribe. Perhaps it’s okay for a Heron who doesn’t sing to like sweet berries. Perhaps he is becoming something new, something hitherto unknown. Perhaps, Reyson thinks, he is _making_ himself anew, so that when he is complete, when the beorc burn, the world will have the sweetest taste, and he will savor it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one ended softer than I anticipated? don’t worry I’m gonna torture Reyson some more soon, I promise


	3. cracked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is called “how Tibarn became a pirate” and also the plot thickens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I originally had a different word for c, but I just wasn’t feeling it. so I watched clips of an LP ft. Reyson to get inspired and he has this line:
> 
> “This colorless vista, these cracked and withered branches, these lifeless trees… This is my forest?” and I almost cried BUT then I realized there were TWO c words in that sentence and, well, the rest is history.
> 
> also slight content warning for a bit of gore towards the end? not a ton but better safe than sorry

* * *

 

 

cracked

/’krakt/

_adjective_

  1. broken without separation of parts 
    1. damaged and showing lines on the surface from having split without coming apart
  2. broken in tone, as the voice



  

* * *

 

 

Kilvas is known for its pirates. Phoenicis is known for disliking Kilvas piracy. The Heron clan may have isolated themselves deep in the forest, but that did not lead to a lack of knowledge about the politics of Tellius; King Lorazieh considered Serenes as much a nation as any other, and nations must understand the state of affairs in the world. From Naesala’s regular visits to the forest Reyson knew his gold coins and shining trinkets came from beorc vessels, but it didn’t bother him too much. After all, it was always Rafiel’s job to worry, and besides, the jewelry boxes were beautiful and Naesala was sweet, and Reyson was young and easily pleased by a golden necklace in the hands of a dashing rogue.

 

(He is still young, but it will take something far more substantial than beorc baubles to win his favor now, if indeed he has favor left to give.)

 

“What’re you thinking about?” Tibarn asks him. He’s sitting at the breakfast table, layering a biscuit with dried meat, while Reyson perches in the window with a cup of honey water.

 

“Beorc,” Reyson answers. That’s not a helpful answer, he knows – he is always thinking about beorc and it upsets Tibarn if he speaks too long of vengeance so he adds, “and pirates.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“I see ships passing the islands sometimes from the castle windows,” Reyson says, swirling his cup slightly and watching the honey rise and resettle.

 

Tibarn makes a noise of agreement. Reyson runs his fingertips along the glaze, feeling the shift in texture from manicured smoothness to the natural roughness of clay. “Ah,” he says suddenly, tilting the cup towards the sunlight and looking at the bottom. “It’s cracked here.”

 

The chair scrapes across the floor with a frankly atrocious sound as Tibarn kicks it back and walks to Reyson. After inspecting the cup for a few moments, he hands it back and sighs. “Can’t have the Prince drinking from a broken cup, now can we.” He flashes Reyson a half-grin. “I’ll make Janaff find the best Phoenician ceramic, he’ll probably enjoy the search.”

 

Reyson stares into his honey tea. “Is it broken?” he asks. “I thought it was just cracked. It is in one piece, and it still works.”

 

Tibarn’s heavy gaze, a familiar weight he has come to associate with the halls of Phoenicis, is beginning to grow uncomfortable. The tips of Reyson’s wings twitch and he tightens his grip on the cup to avoid tapping on it. He fixates on the smooth glaze with his eyes and his fingers and tries not to think about anything for too long.

 

“Yeah,” Tibarn says at last, an odd note in his voice. The air between them is thick with apprehension; he’s planning to say something, do something, but he is unsure of Reyson’s reception.

 

“C’mon.” Reyson looks up to see the back of Tibarn’s huge wings as he turns and clears the breakfast table. Flapping his wings enough to cause ripples in his tea, Reyson finally stands and follows Tibarn to the doorway without looking back. The cracked mug remains on the windowsill.

 

* * *

 

 

“They’re carrying goods bought from Crimea. Ulki said they’ve been purchased for some senators,” Tibarn tells him when they’re hovering near the sea, nothing more than a few specks against the rising cliffs to the beorc eyes below. The ship flies Begnion flags on two masts; it runs close to the Phoenician shore, aware of the danger the rocky coastline poses to their ship but inconsiderate of Phoenicis’s sovereign waters. “Janaff told me it was jewelry, paid for back in Crimea.” Finally, Tibarn turns to him, arms crossed over his chest, his jaw set in a hard line. “You want it?”

 

Reyson’s breath catches. Tibarn wants a fight, yes (anticipation surrounds the Hawks within eyesight but not earshot of them, and Tibarn is _always_ bristling with energy) – but this is something else, something more. He is not, Reyson knows, offering merely a collection of gold necklaces and bracelets – Tibarn does not care for shiny toys and he knows they are of little worth to Reyson. He is offering what Reyson cannot take himself: retribution.

 

Reyson wonders if the beorc aboard this ship carried torches to the forest border sixteen months ago. He wonders if they watched the flames devour Serenes, if the fire reflected in their eyes, if these were the ones who screamed down hatred upon a peaceful tribe, and he finds –

 

He finds he does not care.

 

They are Begnion. They serve the senate, that den of liars and warmongers. They are beorc.

 

“Yes,” he says. “They have a debt to me.”

 

Tibarn’s call echoes across the Phoenician cliff. A dozen Hawks join him, turning their transformations into seamless dives, and Reyson moves closer. He wants the beorc to see his face, for his white wings to be the last thing they ever see before Tibarn’s talons rend their eyes from their sockets and tear off their flesh.

 

He wants them to know it is he who calls down the end of their lives.

 

He wants them to _fear_.

 

And they do.

 

Confusion on the decks spreads quickly; they are in Phoenician waters, long considered as safe as Goldoa’s and Gallia’s. It turns to terror when the first scream is torn from the helmsman’s throat along with his arteries in a spray of blood. One man is thrown into the mast hard enough to dent his face, but he may have died from the chunk of flesh missing in his back. Another loses his arm to his companion’s rapier, swung too slow to strike a flying target but too fast to stop the movement once begun.

 

It’s difficult for Reyson’s mind to supply the vocabulary for the emotions in the carnage below him – glee, perhaps, and battle-lust, and fear, and anger, and everything is an explosion of not-colors and not-sounds and sensations that don’t exist and that probably isn’t helping his attempts to think but goddess help him he hasn’t _felt_ in a year and a half and this, oh, this is the opposite of the crushing pain and darkness of that night: this is pain, but it is all sharp edges cutting him from the inside out and if this is what it takes to _feel_ –

 

A few dozen Begnion beorc lives will be the first installment in a long, long series of payments. Tibarn will collect their debt, and he will deliver it to Reyson’s waiting hands.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …to be continued.


	4. discord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like using words that have a second, musical meaning.
> 
> this chapter picks up directly after the previous one, so I’d advise reading them together.
> 
> also, THANK YOU SO MUCH to [twilightstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstarr/pseuds/twilightstarr) for being my beta!! they're a wonderful human being and I owe them a ton. if you like birds you should read their fics!

* * *

 

discord

/ˈdis-kȯrd/

_noun_

  1. lack of agreement or harmony between persons, things, or ideas 
    1. disagreement; difference of opinion
  2. a harsh or unpleasant combination of musical sounds
  3. strife; dispute; war



 

* * *

 

Reyson is only vaguely aware that he is falling. The Phoenician landscape and sea blur from blues and browns into black and out again and when he feels thick arms wrap around his chest he can’t breathe, he can’t see, something is suffocating him and he needs to – he needs –

As soon as his knees touch solid ground and he’s released he retches into the grass. His nails dig into the coarse soil, which is cool to the touch while his body feels like it’s burning. Air comes in short, shallow gasps; his head is spinning and although he’s on the ground, he thinks parts of him haven’t landed yet.

He realizes someone is holding his hair back. It’s Tibarn – of course it is. “Fuck, Reyson,” he starts, “fuck, I’m sorry.”

Reyson coughs and closes his eyes against another wave of nausea. Tibarn’s hands card through his hair, brushing back strands that insistently fall straight again. Reyson thinks Tibarn simply isn’t capable of being still, but the movement is grounding, the only solid thing while the rest of the world warps and bends around him. (It reminds him of braiding with his eldest sister Lynea, when she would share stories and style his hair and tell him _don’t tell the others, but you’re my favorite little brother_ with a smile.)

“We’re not doing that _ever_ again,” Tibarn says when he’s pulled Reyson against his chest and forced him to lay down. There’s a smear of blood on his cheek; he likely thought to wipe it away before allowing Reyson to see him. As if it mattered. Whether his eyes are open or closed, Reyson can see the dying moments of ten beorc and feel their souls depart from Tellius.

It hurts.

“The only thing I would change would be to sit down first,” Reyson tells him, his throat rasping around the soft consonants of the ancient tongue.

Tibarn’s worry, already an undercurrent that grates against Reyson’s raw nerves, intensifies. Reyson is suddenly lifted off the ground, one of Tibarn’s arms under his knees and the other just below his wings, and carried upwards. Reyson tries to slap Tibarn from the back with his primaries but finds he barely has the energy to move and settles for glaring at the hawk instead.

“We’re going back home,” Tibarn snaps with uncharacteristic fury. “To the castle, and you’re going to take some fucking care of yourself.”

“I don’t need you to tell me what to do,” Reyson yells back – or tries to, but he only manages the first few words before he’s reduced to a quiet hiss. It’s not like it would matter if the other hawks heard, though; they don’t understand the Serenes language and that suits Reyson just fine. “You should have just kept going.”

“Don’t. Just – don’t.”

The flight to Phoenicis Hall is silent.

 

 

When Reyson wakes up in bed, every part of him in pain, he is reminded of his father. The comparison fills him with spite. He immediately rolls out, landing on the floor – or he would have, but the side of his bed has been stacked with blankets and pillows in a terrace-like formation. Furthermore, he is not alone in his room.

Tibarn sits backwards on a chair, whittling at a small piece of wood, and raises an eyebrow. “Very effective,” he says shortly. For a few moments he watches Reyson extricate himself from the blankets (it takes a herculean effort for every movement he makes, but he’s started and he will not stop for something as base as pain) before he sighs and walks the few steps across the room.

“Don’t help me,” Reyson snaps in the ancient language when Tibarn extends his hand.

Tibarn, of course, does anyway. He pulls him to his feet – surprising, since Reyson expected to be carried back into the bed – and then crosses his arms.

“Listen,” Tibarn says. “I’ve always got soldiers, usually green recruits, who refuse to ask for healing or rest time because they think it’ll make them look weak or something. It doesn’t. It just makes them _actually_ weak. And before you start,” Tibarn holds up a hand to cut off Reyson’s sharp intake of breath, “I _don’t_ think you’re weak. But you keep doing this, pushing yourself past your limits? That’ll ruin you, Reyson.”

Whatever Reyson planned to say vanishes. Tibarn reaches out and grips Reyson’s upper arm – a gesture with significance among the hawks that does not escape Reyson’s attention. Kinship. Solidarity. “We all have different limits, Reyson. It’s smart to play within those bounds because it’s where we’re strongest. _No one_ is at their best when there’s discord.”

He releases Reyson’s arm and sits down heavily on the blanket terrace, leaning against the bed. When he looks up at Reyson, there’s the ghost of a smile at the corner of his lips, and he pats the space next to him with a _whump_. “Sit,” he says. “I’m gonna tell you a story.”

It’s some Phoenician childhood story about a girl who steals back the moon from slavers and returns it to the sky, who flies so high she becomes the moon herself. She watches them from Reyson’s window, framed between the thick stone walls, and Reyson wonders what she’s thinking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, Lynea does not exist in canon, but there were supposedly more royal heron siblings than just Rafiel, Lillia, and Leanne, and I want Reyson to be one of seven so sue me.
> 
> 3 things I realized writing this chapter:  
> \- I don’t know why I thought it was a good idea to write for people with giant wings. it’s a lot harder than you think when you start realizing a bunch of human poses literally don’t work. also their wings are like… probably 1.5 meters long EACH?? bro.  
> \- Tibarn and Reyson are… odd. they both have essentially complete control over each other (we all joke about Reyson owning Tibarn, but it’s actually fairly reciprocal), and by the time of canon I think they have a very healthy relationship, but I feel like the early days were a lot more push and pull. you have to go through some shit to end up with their level of trust.  
> \- …I struggled to write this because I had the bright idea of ‘discord’ and every five seconds I would get an actual discord notification and I kept having the mental images of Tibarn and Reyson in a discord chat and ANYWAY next
> 
> I did intend to have a discussion about the connotative difference between discord and chaos but that didn’t want to happen, so oh well


	5. ephemeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first I'd like to apologize for taking exactly a month to upload one (1) chapter. first the start of the semester killed me, then it was golden week and I was visiting my grandparents, then I had to get my life together from being killed, and then I wrote for every other fic besides this one. I will strive for this NOT to become a norm, I love writing this fic and I thank you for all your support!!
> 
> second, thanks to [twilightstarr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstarr/pseuds/twilightstarr) for continuing to beta this fic.
> 
> third, warning for Reyson having a panic attack about a third of the way through this chapter, but honestly what’s new

* * *

 

ephemeral

/i-ˈfe-mə-rəl/

_adjective_

  1. lasting a very short time; transitory



 

* * *

 

His mother used to tell him that maintaining variety in all things is essential to a healthy life. As a child, this meant _no, Reyson, you cannot have chia seeds for the tenth meal in a row_ . By adolescence, it took the form of admonishments when he sulked for hours if someone changed the day’s schedule and informed him, _I’m sorry, but Naesala will not be coming this afternoon_ , despite their earlier plans.

There is no one to tell him this now.

Reyson has made a ritual of praying every night, even though by this point he doubts the goddess listens. He asks her for power, for the strength to raze Begnion and all its monsters to the ground, but nothing ever changes. He has stopped expecting changes, but he has not stopped praying; there is a sort of comfort in the repetition, and if sometimes he adds variety by cursing the goddess’s name instead of praising it, well, at least he’s half following his parents’ advice.

When he is finished, he slips beneath silken sheets and does not dream.

 

* * *

 

“I’ve gotta go down to Jibail, take care of some dispute about water rights. Since the governor’s the one involved in said dispute, she’s not really fit to negotiate it,” Tibarn says without looking up the letter he’s writing, then adds a few colorful descriptions of the governor under his breath. “Anyway, I’ll probably spend a night or two there, ‘cause first, I like a change in scenery, and second, Jibail’s the oldest city in Phoenicis and I do _sometimes_ do kingly things like appreciate history.” He drops his inked brush beside his letter and leans back.

“I think you will break that chair,” observes Reyson. As if to prove his point, the chair creaks in long, drawn out groans as Tibarn leans further back with a grin. Reyson arches his eyebrow, not breaking eye contact.

Tibarn allows the chair to return upright after a moment. “It isn’t gonna break. My chairs are always made from white karu, the most flexible wood in Phoenicis.”

“How many did you break before they decided to make you flexible chairs, Tibarn?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, picks up the brush, and then points it at Reyson. “Not sure how I feel about you developing this sense of humor, Reyson,” he says, but he’s still grinning. “Anyway, I was going to ask if you wanted to accompany me to Jibail. I might get bored if there’s no one else from the capital.”

Reyson’s hand drops, suddenly unable to stand upright on its own, and he’s aware that he’s shaking. The room is too small, his robes are too hot. His breath comes in short gasps and his eyes are watering, blurring the stone walls with the wooden table with the blackness in the deep recesses of the corners that are expanding to fill the room –

“Reyson!” Tibarn yells, suddenly standing before him. Reyson flinches, nearly hitting his head on the wall.

“I’m fine,” he chokes out, his voice hitching on the tears he can feel falling on his cheeks.

“ _Goddess_ ,” Tibarn swears, loud enough that the robins outside are startled into silence. (The same tactics work on him as on the robins: he cannot feel two types of fear at once, and the primal part of him that fears the cry of a hawk is far more easily assuaged than the one whose terror is without any definite source.)

Reyson nods in short, jerky movements. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “I’m fine.”

“Like hell.”

Half of him wants to apologize; half of him wants to punch Tibarn in the nose. Of course, he does neither. (He is never capable of doing what he wishes.)

“Did I say something?” Tibarn asks. He’s moderating his emotions, which is something Tibarn is laughably bad at, but the fact that he _tries_ is enough to break Reyson’s attempt at silently crying into audible gasps.

“I’m sorry.” And then, Tibarn kneels in front of him.

“Not your fault,” Reyson replies. In truth, he doesn’t remember exactly what Tibarn said. Often, in those moments of panic, everything before and after blurs into one inarticulable _feeling_. Usually it’s Tibarn who names the source, but right now all Reyson knows is that it was something unexpected and it meant that some change had occurred without his notice. When Reyson fails to notice change – well, it is his greatest fear to be powerless again.

Tibarn breathes deeply and exhales with a sigh. “Maybe let’s not go to Jibail?”

“No, I – I’d like to come. I don’t do well staying cooped up in the castle. A flight would be good, and I’ve only been to Jibail once.”

“Alright,” agrees Tibarn. “How long ‘til you’d like to leave?”

 

* * *

 

They depart the next morning at daybreak. In Phoenicis, the sun’s rays are unfiltered by the dense canopies of trees characteristic of large regions of mainland Tellius. It takes little time to warm the air, and by the time Phoenicis Hall is out of sight, any spring chill has vanished into heat.

The bright streaks the sun paints over the dry landscape vanish quickly and won’t return until sunset. Reyson appreciates Phoenician sunsets perhaps more than any sunrise; they are vibrant and colorful, a declaration rather than a mere fade.

When they land in a clearing between the maple trees for lunch, he says as much to Tibarn.

“The sunsets?” he repeats. “I’d say Phoenicis has many charms, but that’s certainly top of the list, I’ll have to agree with you.” Then, in a register and tone suggesting he’s quoting an old classic, Tibarn continues, “Ephemerality is the truest appreciation.”

Reyson frowns and glances sideways at his companion.

Tibarn shifts his wings slightly before resettling. (If he were anyone else, the gesture would indicate self-consciousness.) “It’s… part of a poem by Shihka. In reference to sunsets,” he clarifies. “Not the most popular of her works, but I like it. To her, the sunsets are alive, and they give their ultimate love to the landscape by lasting only a few moments.”

“To you?”

“Hmm?”

“You said, ‘to her.’ What about to you?”

It’s Tibarn’s turn to offer a questioning look. “You’d know better than me if the sunsets were alive, Reyson,” he says with a grin. “But I think, if they were, they’d be the only ones who could express appreciation like that. We laguz – humans, too, probably, and animals, maybe plants – have to do it a different way.”

“Sunsets are like fire,” Reyson says, looking up into the blue, blue sky framed by the young green buds on a dozen maple trees. He hears Tibarn’s breath catch, feels him tense beside him, so he adds, “Not like that. I mean that ephe – epheme –” It’s one of the few sound combinations in the modern tongue that still takes hours of practice on each word, and he throws a strawberry at the nearest tree when he can’t quite remember how to end the word.

“Ephemeral,” Tibarn repeats. “Yeah, that ending’s not very nice.”

“I _mean_ ,” Reyson begins again, “that living things rarely do very well in such isolated moments.” He wonders how much that is true beyond himself, though – he thinks of Leanne’s eagerness to try new things, how she was never upset if a pattern wasn’t made nor a ritual maintained. He wonders if Leanne would fear remembering the fleeting moments that are now all he has of his people’s history. He wonders if she would fear forgetting them, too.

Tibarn draws him from his thoughts (he always does, never anyone else, never lets him think too long even if he will always circle back to them again). “So sunsets aren’t alive, then?” he asks, his voice light.

“They’re not any more alive to me than they are to you,” Reyson settles on.

“I see,” Tibarn says. “Well, if I’m going to appreciate something, I’m going to make that appreciation endure.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer that you should probably not yell at people having panic attacks but if Reyson had healthy coping mechanisms it would be ooc amiright
> 
> white karu are not real, but they are my Tellius version of white pine trees, if you want to picture them. Phoenicis strikes me as a place with many evergreens (where there are trees, at least). if u like linguistics please feel free to ask me where I get literally any name in this fic – they always have a linguistic story. find me on [tumblr](https://tepeshoftellius.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/tepeshoftellius) @tepeshoftellius

**Author's Note:**

> I have all the words planned, but if you have suggestions, feel free to tell me them - if I'm inspired, I will totally use other words!
> 
> leave a comment if you liked or hated it, and talk Reyson and Tellius linguistics with me on [tumblr](https://tepeshoftellius.tumblr.com)/[twitter](https://twitter.com/tepeshoftellius) [@tepeshoftellius](https://tepeshoftellius.tumblr.com)


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